


Compatible

by willgrahamchops



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-12
Updated: 2013-02-12
Packaged: 2017-11-29 02:45:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/681833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/willgrahamchops/pseuds/willgrahamchops
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Mycroft have similar interests.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Compatible

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Magnusismyrock](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Magnusismyrock/gifts).



“No kissing, please,” says Mycroft, blocking John's attempt with a polite hand. “I hope you don't mind.”

John shrugs. He can live without it. Only tried out of habit, really.

Except Mycroft kisses him later, when John has his pants pushed down around his ankles and his eyes squeezed shut in ecstasy, and John is surprised but perfectly willing, and Mycroft kisses with a controlled sort of passion that makes John's toes curl.

They are shagging purely out of convenience. John finds it increasingly difficult to maintain a steady relationship with each passing day (a steady _romantic_ relationship, at least) and women always seem to think – well, they think he's gay, and now he's gone and given in to peer pressure. Mycroft is convenient because he's not going to tell, because he's just as busy as John and needs something casual as well. And he's John's type. John doesn't want to admit that he has a type, but he does. He likes smart women, smarter men.

Mycroft proffers an air of casual superiority; perhaps it's arrogance, but John doesn't mind. Far from it. Mycroft traps John's hands above him with his half-removed jumper and ruts against him, frowning in concentration. Everything about him is restrained, rhythmic, too slow for John's liking, and it's absolutely perfect. It's exactly how he imagines– 

“Spread your legs,” Mycroft snaps. John hurries to kick his trousers away, to comply, to present himself. Mycroft gives him only cursory preparation but John knows how to relax.

He chokes something unintelligible upon penetration. Mycroft is silent save a barely-audible exhalation, a word that John doesn't quite catch. Could have been– 

“Harder,” John gasps. Mycroft ignores him. Mycroft sets his own pace, excruciatingly slow, inexorably deeper. John likes it, likes writhing helplessly and begging for more and being denied without even the most perfunctory of explanations, as if the justification should be obvious and he's just too dull to figure it out.

It lasts. God, does Mycroft make it last. He draws it out until John is frantic with need and then gives him just this side of enough, and John starts to think he's always felt this way, always been teetering here on the edge. He begs. He's incoherent. He's okay with that.

John knows when Mycroft is going to come because he stops moving completely and wraps a gentle hand around the base of John's cock. The anticipation keeps him close. The next stroke is going to bring him off, and– 

“Sherlock,” Mycroft whispers.

“ _Sherlock!_ ” John chokes.

They come simultaneously.

Ten minutes later, Mycroft is neatly dressed and John is still prostrate on the bed, sticky, sated, Mycroft's come leaking out of him.

“Clean yourself up,” Mycroft snaps. “He'll be coming home soon.”

The novelty of Mycroft bossing him around has worn off now, so John snaps back. “He wouldn't care if he walked in on _me_.”

Mycroft only frowns. “Suit yourself,” he says. John cleans up once he's gone.

They really are quite compatible, he thinks.


End file.
